Chapter 4

Having framed Bob’s strange but intriguing ethnic painting of palm trees, cocktails, two suns and Picasso type figures on a beach, I let myself into their smart converted bungalow. Using a new Commando device which utilises Velcro and sticky tape I placed them and stood back to make sure the art work looked good. The scene would leap out at Jackie when she woke up from the bed. While I was in their boudoir, I took a sneaky peep into a laundry basket, finding it empty, ditto one in the en-suite bathroom. It’s a perverted habit of mine wherever I have a chance, smelling any female undies waiting to be washed. I found Jackie’s underwear drawer and rifled through that but guessed she’d taken most of her good stuff away with her, finding the odd couple of plain pants, but there was a 38D white brassiere. My dirty mind raced.

Thinking ahead and nastily, I mean they are good pals, I drove home and returned with a tiny video camera I have had success with in other locations. Where to hide it was the main issue and in the end I opted for rather large potted plant close between her clothes drawer and wardrobe. I fixed it easily to the main stem, it’s dinky black facia concealed in the deep shadows. I tested it before leaving and it needed a minor tweak to get the angle correct when I stood and walked near it. I left it on to be activated by motion and sound when Bob and Jackie arrived home tomorrow.

I can’t say I wasn’t nervous driving to the big house that week. Buoyed up by thoughts of Jackie’s intimate reveals, having safely removed the mini camera and downloaded but not having time to view the results, painting a nude of Monica was still daunting. She greeted me warmly, we chatted over some coffees in the huge kitchen and then retired upstairs to a guest room. I had stated good natural light to be the main requisite and bags of space, as my easel was going to remain there until the work was complete.

“That room is out of bounds to the staff most of the time anyway Derek, but of course it will be securely locked whether we are in it or out of it,” she gaily tittered, breathing some alcohol over me at ten thirty in the morning. She was clad in a satin, dark grey gown which was belted tight high up her torso and I detected nipples and wobble beneath it. Being more observant, she was going to be the centre of my concentration for some time, I realised she had vaguely mannish aspect. Mrs Passendale had decided to tart herself up for the momentous occasion, by stacking her handsome crown of hair in a pile high like a disorderly Madame Pompadour wig, fixed in place by a series of thick wooden pins. It did look impressively elegant.

She took two phone calls while I carried my stuff upstairs to the ‘studio’ as she gigglingly called it. I set it up and decided where she would pose until she joined me, pointedly locking the door. It had a Yale and mortice lock so we – she, were twice safe. Her gown had slipped a little between greeting me, kitchen coffee and phone calls. A delightful full jiggle of bosom accompanied by a couple of leg flashes happened. “You suggested a standing pose Monica when we first talked? Still game for that?” “I’ve been thinking about that Derek and whether it might be tiring ... for me you know. Any suggestions? You’re the expert.” “This where you’ll be whatever,” I indicated, where a patch of muted sunlight splashed the floor, where the sun would rotate and enter through the double aspect windows and also where I aimed the very same video camera which was secreted on the frame of my easel. This was too good an opportunity to throw away and not add to my wanking material. I’d switched it on just before she locked the door, hoping to catch her moving around in various poses before finalising.

“Of course you could lie down, classic pose you know, but of course that might tire or make you ache...” “Well let’s get on and try things shall we?” Monica announced undoing her belt, the slippery garment was discarded round her feet. Fuck me!!!! Bare faced naked, she stood in the sunlight, highlights on all her extremities, illuminated and pink. She attempted a classic pose, one leg perched across the other, which tended to exaggerate spare flesh on her inner thighs. Her pubes were a full on, old style, full bush of greying now thinning hair. I bet she’d never heard of, never mind thought of trimming or removing it, like some of the models her age I knew. I had in mind a sitting pose, but for the sake of recording as much wank material as I could I wanted her to get on the floor. Her knockers were full without too much gap between them. Low and heavy, past her button navel they swayed and clattered lusciously together. She had stout, five pence wide teats the same skin tone as her small smooth areolae.

Due to her own foresight, there was already a stack of duvets nearby and I made a comfy pile for her to recline on. “Let’s try a floor view first, down on this, that was useful Mrs Passendale,” I murmured, offering my hand, gesturing at the cushioning, which she gracefully sank onto. I stayed well clear of the camera view. “Yes, that’s fine Derek, by the way call me Monica please - you like my anticipation of a laying pose then?” she chuckled languishing in what she imagined was a classic pose. I pondered, studying for a few seconds. Getting a good eyeful of her hirsute crotch and indeed the unexpected thatch in her armpits... “Yes excellent ... now could we have this leg ... er ... this way. Gosh! you don’t mind, but it’s usual, touching the models to get the pose correct?” I tittered, having bent close, to tap one of her chubby knees. In doing so, I got a close up twat view, seeing a slit with no labia. I stood back and weighed it up artistically and voyeurly. “What about this Derek?” she queried, twisting her bulk, not easily, age and build playing their part, which although not giving me the view, the camera would, as this game old biddy, shuffled sideways, her big legs wide apart until she settled.

We tried standing poses which showed off her buxom torso to perfection; wobbles, quivers, bounces and the inevitable fleshy folds and wings she had accumulated over too much of a good life. A scar halfway down and across her abdomen. It wasn’t neat, once again how things have improved over the years in many ways. Her wide butt was ever moving and showed cellulite and a couple of big sort of indents, two small spots and her crack was long and deep, no way of seeing in it, two layers of bum cheeks exposing it’s sag. I handled her several times, without her flinching.

Finally a seating pose was agreed and she reclined comfortably, one arm gracefully along the back of the chaise longue. I got on with my work, did some ink sketches, changed the angle, thinking about moving the easel, the camera not needed any time in the immediate future now she was settled. I commenced the preparatory drawing on a one metre square linen canvas. We chatted. “Suppose you don’t get old ladies modelling do you?” she giggled. “You’d be surprised Monica. There are two excellent models I use. One actually brought her grand daughter with her, school out, babysitting as it were. She even asked if I wanted the child to stand alongside her for the piece I was doing...” “Good grief! Naked????” “No it was a sort of ancient Greek thing so toga things were worn. It was a class I was holding, about eight artists.”

“This is something very different to what I’d normally be doing,” Monica chuckled. “I ride out a lot, got four horses in the stables. My grand daughters come up to join me when they have time. Then there’s the estate business, our invest ... my investments,” she corrected herself and continued giving me chapter and verse on the highbrow life. I gave her a rest after an hour, she’d refused one at thirty minutes. I managed to clutch the camera in the palm of my hand, before going to help her, rise, stretch and don the robe I handed to her. She sauntered off to a family bathroom next door for a noisy piss, I wondered if she knew I could hear. Back in her position, the conversation rolled on. “You’ve known Jackie and Bob a long time?” “About fifteen I think. They weren’t married then. He’s a mate quite a good one we/re not buddy buddy but we play snooker, cards and help out ... you know.” “He’s quite a bit younger than her I think?” Monica fished for gossip. “Well I know he’s in his early sixties ... that’s all. Haven’t a clue about Jackie.” “Hmmmm!”